#odditymuse

He doesn't remember much.

No, that's a lie; Victor remembers everything, and it's entirely too much. He remembers every single thing he'd done, followed by every single thing that had been done to him - remembers it, him, remembers that shared moment of fear and acceptance, realization, the wave of relief that mixed into all the pain, the pain, so much pain---

But then there's nothing. Besides the sound of Victor, he remembers that one. The creature, his son, speaking his name in the very same way he did many days and weeks ago, back when said Victor hadn't been able to fully grasp the extend of what he had managed to give life to during his time of madness, his need to be better, bigger, more than what anyone else had ever been...

But now he's here, and he thinks he isn't dead, because his chest still hurts, his lungs continue to burn, his stump stinging from that excessive friction caused by his prosthetic; The familiar taste of copper remains coating his tongue, a thick layer Victor tries to swallow against before he coughs, airways dry and rough.

"...W-where..." A blink, a knit of brows, eyes cracking open - Victor has to put effort into the action, because those lids feel as heavy as lead, the desire to just fall back asleep almost overwhelming in nature.

Part of him had hoped to die there, on board of that ship, once the creature had forgiven him for his sins...

There's rather generic pop music playing on the radio, something recent, listed somewhere in the upper section of the current charts; Steven's hands are submerged in the foamy water as he listens to the catchy tune filling the silence of their flat, moving the kitchen sponge across a plate he's holding onto, removing any dirt and leftover crumbs that stick to it from the breakfast he's had mere minutes ago - doing the dishes, being diligent.

The air smells like lemon grass and cucumber, leftover herbal tea and warmed-up toast - such a nice blend of scents, honestly, and that the sun is shining bright today makes everything even better! Steven's in a chipper mood, has slept exceptionally well tonight, the food he's just had was amazing, and... yeah, everything is just great today, honestly!

---That's why he is currently humming along to the music, even going as far as moving his body a bit as he does - swinging his hips a little, bouncing where he's standing, just feeling the flow of the rhythm.

It is then that something else cuts through the moment, spoken in what Steven would call awe, perhaps - and he almost misses it, the string of syllables, because he's so focused on that song that it takes him a second there to realize that this isn't part of the lyrics...

God, I love you.

---Steven freezes on the spot, gaze continuing to linger on the foam covering his hands, the plate he is still scrubbing clean; One, two, three whole moments pass before he blinks, finally, and turns his head, glancing over his shoulder toward the make-up mirror that they've placed onto their small dining table a little while ago to make it easier for them to talk to another - meeting a reflection there...

Marc. It's Marc, and he appears as white as a sheet there, eyes wide open, a deer in headlights; Shocked, definitely. Perhaps similar to what Steven must look like at that very moment, truly letting it sink in now, the fact that something very special - a certain kind of emotion - has been revealed to him there.

Just like that.

And oh boy is Steven blushing now, feeling his face heat up to about 3000 degrees celcius within a bloody second, causing him to immediately whip his head back around, hiding a bit; Because oh gosh, that's... oh, that's--- something there, huh? What... what Marc has just said. That's... yeah, definitely something. Makes his little heart start to race inside his chest, hammering against his sternum, followed by the sensation of a thousand butterflies exploding in the pit of this stomach---

Okay. Act... casual. Act cool. Be nonchalant. Marc's expression has told it all, really - he must've muttered it out on accident. It... it happens, right? It's just--- it just, sometimes, you know, it just... yeah. That.

It feels like the walls are closing in on him. As soon as he felt it coming on, he'd escaped to an empty room as soon as possible. All this death.

It feels like there's a weight on his chest he can't get off, and he shrugs his hoodie off he usually keeps on, as if shedding a layer will make the weight lessen. It doesn't.

Robby's back is against a wall, and he knows that if he doesn't sit down, it's likely that his legs will give out from under him so he lets himself slide down into a sitting position, back still against the wall.

His breathing comes out in harsh, heavy pants. He knows all the tricks, and they're easy to tell patients. Not so easy to tell yourself in the midst of a panic attack.

None of the tricks seems to work, he can't focus on them. All he can focus on is not being able to breathe right and the grief that washes over him. He shouldn't have come to work today, he should have stayed home, he should have known better.

Fuck.

The room is dark and quiet, other than Robby's harsh breathing. It's getting even harder to breathe, his lungs feel like they're on fire as he struggles to gather air.

The room looks empty, no one should be coming in here, but he hears the door click shut all the same and footsteps. He doesn't look up, doesn't want to meet the eyes of whoever had found him. He much rather they just go away.

That is until that someone kneels down in front of him and gently grabs his face. Robby knows that touch without looking at Jack, he'd know that touch blind, and at first, he fights it. He doesn't want to look at Jack when he's a goddamn mess.

But with his hands cupping his neck and thumbs brushing against his cheeks, it soothes him enough for Robby to turn his gaze to Jack's. Instantly, he notices the concern in them. No judgment, just concern.

If it were anyone else, Robby would have snapped, hissed at them to not touch him and leave but he and Jack have shared many intimate touches and they love each other. Jack gets away with a lot more than others and Robby trusts him completely.

Lena calls this place their home. Kane... does not know what to call it, at all.

It feels familiar to him, the house as a whole - familiar colors, familiar scents, familiar sights; Perhaps he's experiencing that sensation because he'd been here before, looking for her - for Lena. It might be the case, yes... But then, he'd only stayed for about thirty minutes - maybe twenty, maybe thirty-five - and most of that time had been spent by the two existing inside what must've been the kitchen, with her attempting to talk to him, Kane unsure what to even say in return.

No, that mentioned sensation feels older, much closer to a timeframe that involves years rather than minutes - it feels... secure, almost. Like something that allows tension to disappear, shoulders to sink as he stands there, in the middle of the hallway, gaze currently focused on the pictures hanging by the staircase.

His face - Kane's face. Lena's face. Smiling, laughing. Other people's faces. More laughs, more smiles. Eyes open, eyes closed, eyes looking at him, eyes looking elsewhere. Memories printed onto sheets of paper, framed and put behind glass to preserve them; A hand is raised, with not-Kane, it, carefully sliding a digit along the edge of one of said frames... picking up a layer of dust, watching it stick to the pattern of his non-moving fingerprint.

They'd arrived a little while ago, left the facility behind, and Lena had... gone somewhere else. Into another room, possibly - he can hear her rummaging around. Kane doesn't know what she's doing and he'd gotten stuck in the meanwhile, in some way... Felt drawn in by those pictures, the appearance of the interior as a whole; Gaze trailing, he turns away from those printed memories - allows dark eyes to look at the ceiling, the lamp that's hanging there, a closeby cupboard, the floor beneath his feet...

Familiar and yet foreign. A place he seems to know yet doesn't know at all. A swallow and he turns once more, making his way over to the kitchen, just because he doesn't know where else to go, exactly.

@odditymuse sent today's just... one of the harder days // mayhaps hank @ connor ??

One of the harder days.

Connor stares at Hank with an softened expression, one that most would think a robot is not capable of. He doesn't understand how Hank feels, he doubts he will ever, but he can be here for him.

That is what matters, right?

Connor is not good at this connecting with humans thing, in his opinion, but he does care a great deal for the cop before him. He wants to take his pain away, to help in whatever way he can.

( text : jane ) noted ( text : jane ) no , i am immortalising this message ( text : jane ) might make it my background

@odditymuse liked for a starter.

"I'm sorry." The Prince's words came out sounding cold and unbothered but Ignis knew him better than anyone. If anyone could pick up on the emotions he kept simmering just beneath the surface, Ignis could. He hadn't meant to shout at him the day before. It was just...that there was a lot on his mind. His royal duties had picked up dramatically once he graduated from high school and he was struggling to keep up. "For yesterday."

It seemed his whole life was devoted to council meetings and training these days. Noctis hated it. He knew it was important. He knew he needed to be ready to take the throne, but he couldn't get past the fact that he was being prepared for his father's death. He couldn't be king until then, after all, and Noctis knew the burden the man was carrying. Wielding the ring, and maintaining the wall...it took so much out of him. He still remembered the shock he felt when he saw him using a cane for the first time. It hadn't helped that he'd first seen it on the news.

"I know you were just trying to help. I've looked through the reports you left. Made notes and everything." He'd even cleaned his apartment. It wasn't spotless, but it was a whole lot better than it had been the day before. All the takeout containers had been tossed out and his clothes had all been put away. He'd even tried to cook, but that hadn't gone well. The evidence was on the kitchen counter. He didn't think anything could save that saucepan.